


Lenore

by theangrywarlock



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: And it's post-barricades, Dear Mr. Edgar Allan Poe, I find you most inspiring, I hope my readers watch that amazing song on youtube, In short, It's truly haunting, M/M, Oh yes, Orestes Dead; Pylades Living, Sincerely, So I'm warning for first-person, TAW, This fic has violence, To say nothing of the song called Lenore by Yunyu, Wherein I delve into Grantaire's head, Your works are very prominent within this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:50:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theangrywarlock/pseuds/theangrywarlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What can I say that isn't in the tags? We delve into Grantaire's head, post-1832 barricades. It's not a pretty sight. This might be part one of two. It depends if anyone's interested or not. Or if I get off my lazy ass and write the second part. In case you missed it in the tags, this is first-person perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lenore

_Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,_  
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,  
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,  
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.  
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-  
Only this, and nothing more." 

"The rent, monsieur!"

May he rot with the rent. Place the coins upon his eyes where he slept. I had his money, but it was tainted. The sides of the francs were stained with dried blood. You must understand that I intended to clean them, make the coins presentable, but I chose to pass out in a pile of my own making of filthy clothes and sheets that served as my bed. I hadn't time to clean up. I would have no visitors anyway.

Another banging against the door and the pictures rattled in their frames. 

"Monsieur!"

A few coins were clean. Damn the luck. I could just as easily make the man disappear, eliminate my problems with rent then and there, but that would entail killing the man within my room.

In front of _him_. I could not justify such a thing. I was here to deliver vengeance, not cast down the plights of a few others. My landlord is a just man. My landlord wants only what he has earned.

It is still in a fit of pique that I throw open the door and toss down the coins. "Fetch. Like a good dog!" 

It is a cruel thing to say, but I'm turning into a cruel man. This is what happens when one has no sunlight. This is what occurs when one has no true vision. I am not blind, but I may as well be. I see nothing ahead for me of my future. It has all come down to tunnel-vision. I see spots, moments in time that lead me to my next victim of choice.

The landlord stoops to recover the coins. He cannot afford not to. "Worst tenant I've ever had," I hear him mutter.

"You would have had better within the new world," I growl. "Had you risen. Had they all risen. But they didn't, so now you can damn well stoop for your coin." I slam the door on him, suddenly furious and seeing red.

His portrait hangs in the middle of them. Eight photos entirely. Four on the left, three on the right, one in the direct center. 

I did that.

I painted them.

I also hanged them. 

_Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,_  
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.  
Eagerly I wished the morrow;-vainly I had sought to borrow  
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore-  
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-  
Nameless here for evermore. 

How many nights have I dreamed now?

Precious few. I do not dream. I toss. I turn. I remember, but I do not dream. I fantasize in my waking hours over being alive, being awake, being sober. I fantasize about saving them all, and if I could not save them, then I would stand beside them.

Verily do I see him standing there beside me. I awoke to see his corpse. Nailed to the wall like a glorious Christ, torn apart by the bullets within his so very human chest. His blood wouldn't cure people, though. That's not why he was here. He was here to deliver us all, like Moses, and yet no one rose to heed his call. 

No one rose to heed the call of Combeferre either. He who advanced so far in his studies. He who earned the respect of his teachers and peers alike. They took him seriously when he spoke of his hobbies, but never about the crowning glory of mankind. No one rose to heed the call of Courfeyrac. Where were all his friends? All of them within different groups. Those who laughed with him, joked with him, exchanged warm pleasantries. These were not fair-weather acquaintances, they were friends. Did they miss him at the Voltaire?

The people did not rise to heed the call of anyone. They sat within their warm houses, ignoring the gunshots on the street, locking their doors and windows. They were fine with others fighting and dying for their freedoms, for the right to simply exist. They were fine when cleaning the blood off the streets, when rearranging the furniture back to its proper places. 

The streets feel claustrophobic to me now. I cannot go down the narrow passageways any longer. I cannot go through them without hearing their screams. I was not awake. I was drunk and heard nothing. Perhaps my imagination supplies it all for me.

All the same, I painted them. I painted _him_ because I could not dig the bullets out of his chest and bring him back to life. He exists now for me, in multiple incarnations that I have created, because this is the only way I know to keep him with me. But my paintings are flimsy works of art at best. I've never been good at anything, and so they exist within a half-life. If I knew someone who had better talent than I...

Ah, but his eyes. 

Ever watching.

Ever puzzling over the mysteries of me. 

While he lived, I could not paint his eyes the way I liked. They were disdainful, as though he couldn't believe I would attempt to capture him in mere colors. Now here, they looked wistful. I remembered him looking that way so many times. 

He looks at me now and perhaps I see a subtle shift. The eyes turned inward. He is leaving me despite being trapped within my frame. 

"Tonight," I whisper to him. "Tonight. Give me tonight."

_And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain_  
Thrilled me-filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;  
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,  
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-  
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-  
This it is, and nothing more." 

I make my way. The street names mean nothing to me. The people mean nothing to me. All that matters now are reactions.

They distrust his name now. Once, he reigned as an angel to them. Majestic and soaring, he sought their futures while dismissing his own. 

Joly did the same. He had more to hope for. I don't mean to disparage the occupation of lawyer, but I do disparage it. To defend the people now meant to give something to the ungrateful. Joly was content to keep them living. He wanted them alive, to fight for themselves, to give unto himself and to risk the infection seeping into his own skin. What a terrible thing it was to kill a doctor. To ground out the life of someone who had devoted himself to the saving of life. 

What a terrible thing it was to kill an old man.

To kill a child.

They all made their choices, but within the wake of the funerals, within the sight of the mass graves, the people also made their choices. 

I had to listen as _his_ name was dragged through the mud. As he was called any number of names from terrorist to madman to fool. A hopeless idealist. A man who had no idea what he was doing, where he was going. He was cut down due to his own idiocy. 

Oh, Enjolras! How glad I am that you were not here to listen to these barbs! How glad I am that you rest now within the dirt, that you are surrounded by your friends if not physically than within whatever world you now reside! That you are free from the shackles of the people who would spit in your face even while you die for them. But you would so hate that which they call the others far more. Not just our friends, but those who were on different barricades. 

Long live Saint-Merry. Long live Les Halles. Long live-

Ah. Best not to shout in the street. I could get shot. That would put a terrible dent in my plan.

Let me tell you about the aftermath. 

People survived the barricades. Wounded, they were able to flee. They clutched their innards in hands and took to their home. They hid. Or they were aided by their families. Once so sure that others would join them in their plight, they had underestimated the cruelty of their king. So many were ordered to put down the revolutionaries. Who could ever think that a man would rather choose to destroy his own people rather than step down out of power? 

But they survived those barricades. 

Just not for very long.

It wasn't because of their injuries. Oh, too few doctors! Perhaps they shouldn't have shot so many! Oh dear. So much blood, but they'd survive their injuries.

They just wouldn't survive their government. 

You see, it wasn't enough for us all to witness the demise of so many young men. It wasn't enough to wash off the blood. It wasn't enough for the people to realize their folly. What was needed was a larger display.

That's when we got to see the true purpose of the police force.

They hunted. Those creatures hunted the survivors of the barricades. Hunters that sought out the injured prey, the ones who had no where to go, the ones who had managed to flee. They sought out those people and they brought them to justice. They grounded them beneath their boot heels, taking orders, and they felt guilt about it.

At least one of them felt guilt about it. 

Vidocq. Such an interesting fellow, I suppose. He was responsible for rounding up those revolutionaries, those pathetic sorts who could not run from him, who could not fight for themselves either physically or verbally. And he felt guilt. Guilt enough to lock his doors at night. Guilt enough to hide. Guilt enough because in time, the police could not round up every single revolutionary, and their acts made other people very angry.

People like me.

I answer to _him_ , you see. I answer to him and no one else but him. And he watches over me as he watches over the people. He has seen what I have seen, used my eyes, and he commands me silently, and I obey.

I am glad to obey. 

Because I am proud. I am not worthy of him. I am not worthy of championing his name or his cause. I am not worthy of anything at all. It's not just because of my remarkable inclination to stay drunk 'round the clock. It is because I passionately despise the people he seeks to protect. I hate them for letting him die. I hate them for allowing this government to go on. I hate them for running his name through the mud. 

I would have loved to turn my vengeance upon them, and perhaps I will.

When he's no longer staring at me. 

But those eyes. How do you get away from those eyes? Oh, Enjolras, Enjolras! I am unworthy of you! I do not believe in your cause! But I will go where you lead me. 

So I am brought to Vidocq.

Vidocq.

With his locks.

Vidocq.

Within my lock now.

The punishment must fit the crime, you see. I believe in that sense of justice. And his crime was fear. It was fear he placed within the hearts and minds of those who sought only to recover from their wounds given to them by people who didn't want them fighting for the common man. So his punishment will be fear.

Made tangible by means of a pendulum. 

Do watch, dear sir. Do watch as it drops lower and lower. I kept it raised very high, but as it makes its rounds, it will drop a bit lower. 

Feuilly was the mechanical one of us. He should have been an engineer. He built our barricade in 1832 and he built a barricade of his own in 1830. He led teams of men, working class men, on the barricades. After the uprising in Lyon, the Republicans saw the working class as ones to join with, and Feuilly was the epitome of a man who could rise above his station even if he was never given the chance to do so. 

I do not have a fraction of his knowledge. I drank most of it away, I guess, but I do know where he used to live. I know where he used to work. It's a dreary place now. Burnt out, but not down, and it is here that the pendulum swings. 

I do not hear the cries for mercy, though they come. I do not answer his questions on why am I doing this. I do not answer to him. He answers to his king. My deity of choice would not call for the brutal slaughter of children, so Vidocq's judgment means little to me.

Children.

Did you know that Moloch required child sacrifices to be made for him? 

Gavroche was fed on a silver platter. I did not know the boy, only that he enjoyed the company of our group. His body was easy to find. It hadn't been covered up. They simply did not care that what they did was kept on display. 

I tracked down Navet. He was hiding within the sewers. He wouldn't come out. I don't know how much he saw, but it was far too much. Sometimes I still hear his voice when I'm trying to sleep. 

"All gone, all gone. They're all gone."

I left Vidocq's body uncovered as well. I'm not feeling particularly remorseful tonight.

_Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,_  
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;  
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,  
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,  
That I scarce was sure I heard you"-here I opened wide the door;-  
Darkness there, and nothing more. 

There is beauty in death.

Enjolras broke my heart when I awoke to see him. 

But now, I wonder if that wasn't right. That he should stand so aloft, so glorious, his soul taken flight before he could be brought down by the gloom of the failed rebellion. Would he have grown cynical? Likely not. For he carried not one pessimistic bone within his body. Would he have grown tired of fighting? Would he be beaten in the streets for his role? Would he be arrested and spend a torturous decade or so in prison? Would his death be quick?

Better he go out now when he was still young. When he is beautiful. When he could still fly. 

His soul was ill-fitting for this world. His ideas were too progressive. He valued human life, and so he must die. He valued equality, and so he must die. He valued people as they were, and so he must die. 

This is why I was allowed to live, you see. I've gone through this question before. Why them and not me? Why was I so deserving? And then I found my answer in the reversal of that question. They were allowed death. They were allowed the departure of this rank and festering world. This world has been given over to evil, to decay. Only the young and virtuous can leave it, must leave it, because their actions are virtuous. So they must be killed. Dark creatures have their hands upon this earth. They twist and bend it. 

Sometimes, goodness slips through the cracks and is born. That goodness will grow up and will try to deliver others. Will try to do what is best. This makes them targets for those who cannot handle such ideals.

So it's not enough to kill them. They must grind them into dust. Erase their memories. Pollute their ideals. Kill them again, over and over, because they might come back. They might infect others with their beliefs toward charity.

We mustn't allow that.

So pity me, this poor creature, who fell in love with the idealization of beauty and kindness and a purity that even extended toward me. Pity me for my love, for I cannot carry him within me. What I carry is a tainted version. A version that forces my hand in killing those who keep trying to murder him. 

Pity me.

But keep out of my way.

And do not speak of him. You are just as unworthy as I am to do so. You did not rise. You did nothing. You were scared. You were trembling against your door. You claim to have seen nothing. 

I hate you.

But he does not.

Such a shame that he isn't here anymore to defend you. Now it's just me. And I will not defend you. I am here for one reason and one reason alone. I will get what they could not. And it's not for your sake. 

I wish I could burn you all. But he won't let me.

He

Won't

LET ME.

_Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,_  
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;  
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,  
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"  
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"-  
Merely this, and nothing more. 

The papers leak blood.

I stare at them from within the Musain. They are kept cloistered to prevent theft. All the better, really. I need no more blood upon my hands. They sing the song of Vidocq's death. They tell the tale of pendulum but not the pit that he carved out for others. 

I do not mind. I'm not doing this for fame or glory. My drink tastes like sewage and I remember Navet again.

"All gone."

Not yet, Navet. Not yet. There is still more work for me to do. There is still more that he demands from me. A nasty branch has been clipped, but the diseased tree continues to grow, and I am left to ponder not on the consequences of my actions but how am I to go from here? He does not tell me such orders. He leaves it all up to my discretion.

So I listen to him, and I whisper to the frame, and I touch the bottom of the portrait with my lips as that is as close to him as I can get. I've long since hung up more portraits of him, of how I remembered him, and they all feel as though he's gaining his life back from me.

Was I so important? To portray him in action is to breathe new life into my motionless beloved. 

I wondered if I was leaking life to him. I would gladly give him my own to spare him from death, but then I started to become very frightened. What if he should live again and I should die? True, life suits him, and he suits life, and yet this world does not deserve him. He would be torn asunder by those who hate him. He would be speared verbally and spiritually by those who do not understand.

I would not be at his side to help. Neither would his friends. What a terrible thing, to come back to life alone and at the mercy of a world that despises you.

I could not do that to him! 

The portraits now reside within a different room of my apartment. I keep them hidden and under sheets. Looking at them only one at a time. He is sad at this, but I explained to him my reasoning. I don't know if he understood. Hopefully he does not. To understand would be to accept that this world is rancid, and he cannot do that. He cannot accept such a reality. It would destroy him. 

One day I will join him. One day, he will allow me to end my own life, and I will gladly do so. I wouldn't be so crude as to offer him up the blood, of course. He does not want that from me. Then when the stench of my decomposing body hit the streets, my landlord would break down my door. My crimes would be exposed and there I would be. Dead, upon my knees, in front of the portraits of my friends and _him_.

They will ask "Why?"

They would have their answers if they cared to look. I've written a few statements, explaining the state of the world, how much I have to atone for, and the loss of light within my life. A light that was snatched away from me.

They have chosen the wrong man to steal from, you see. They have chosen to take that which holds my chains, my leash, my hooks, my love. They have deprived me of humanity, so what they will receive in return is all that is left of me. 

Even now, he still holds me in place. 

Beloved. Precious boy. Do not look at me in such a way. Tell me what you need and I will get it for you.

The words come into my mind, pass through my skull, and I have no guards up when it comes to him. 

'The King', he says.

And nothing more.


End file.
